


Next Time I'll Be Braver

by beanarie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reincarnation story. Co-written by whizzingfizbee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Time I'll Be Braver

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the inception land community.

When the Anne dropped anchor in Charleston harbor, Giles stood on the shore and thought, _Well, this should be diverting_. He had been looking forward to spending the afternoon searching for new books to bring back to his younger siblings on the homestead, but that could wait for another time.

Giles remembered things. He noticed things. Where others might have assumed that there were people standing behind them and left it at that, he knew it was twelve men (nine with hats, two with blond hair, and one with brown), three women (all in bonnets), and a small girl (red haired). His mind kept running counts of everyone leaving the ship as well, and not only because he had been tasked with seeking out marriageable females. Giles simply worked that way. It was his mother who regularly asked _him_ about their food stores, clothes for the children, because he knew, without having to leave the room and look, what supplies they had and what they'd used up. His father once said, before he died and Giles's brother Simon took control of the homestead, 'Giles, my second son. You are a good boy, you do everything asked of you, and that... well-oiled contraption atop your shoulders makes you uncommonly skilled at paying attention.'

So he was watching when the eleventh brown-haired man to leave the ship fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the earth.

"Friend?" Giles asked, crouching down. "You're unwell?"

The emigrant made a shaking, shuddering sound. Then he dropped back on his haunches, grabbed his right heel, and smiled with relief and gratitude the likes of which Giles had never seen before.

"By the blessed All-Mighty Lord on high," he said. "The soles of these shoes shall only a few times more touch the wood of a ship's deck. I can scarcely wait until we have reached Georgia at long last." Then he turned to Giles. "Young sir, do promise me that if I die in this, this 'new world', I will not be buried at sea."

"I can make no such promise," Giles answered honestly.

The man laughed. "I shall rise," he announced, scratching at the hairs on his chin. "And after, you shall extend this moment of hospitality long enough to find me a blade, allowing me to divest myself of this ignoble and unsightly beard."

"My name is Giles Holloway," he said.

"I shall rise forthwith, Giles Holloway." He grunted softly and did not move. "I shall."

Giles let his lips curl in a smile as he helped the man to his feet.

"The poor wretch you just assisted is called Matthew Viccars," he said, giving Giles a clap on the shoulder. "And he is grateful beyond measure."

"Are you now indebted to me, Matthew Viccars?" Giles asked.

Matthew's eyes lost the spark of good humor. "I should hope not," he said, his voice distant.

Confused, Giles cast about for something else to say. "Razor," he reminded, and Matthew recovered somewhat.

"Yes. Yes, let's away. Somewhere without a view of the water. Please, I should like to not set eyes on it for a time."

~

"Well, you know a goodly portion of the emigrants came from debtor's prison, boy. It was Governor Ogelthorpe's vision for the new colony. A new beginning for them all."

Aunt Elizabeth gave the explanation as Matthew Viccars slept on the bed Giles had been occupying since the beginning of winter. After getting his requested shave, he'd wavered on his feet, so Giles had taken him back for food and rest.

"And from where did you receive this tale?" Giles asked. He held his aunt in nothing but the utmost respect, but there were many dubious sources of information in Charleston and she didn't always confirm that something was the God's honest truth before passing it on.

"Mrs. Stewart." Looking up from the bubbling pot of stew, she placed a hand on her hip. "Would words from her mouth be acceptable for the young master's ears?"

"They would," he said. Frances Stewart had always seemed very sensible in his dealings with her, and through her husband the blacksmith, she had opportunity to learn quite a bit about the visitors.

Elizabeth shook her head, smiling. "Your airs, Giles," she said fondly, as he went back to sweeping the floor. "Will this world ever be up to your standards?"

~

After supper, Giles joined Matthew outside. There was celebration in the air and revelry going on in the street long past the time when most people usually retired for the night. Both men greeted the people they knew, making introductions as needed. They stopped in front of a handful of men gathered around Lucas Peartree, the younger brother of the innkeeper, who was playing songs on his flute.

As he finished his set, Peartree tipped his hat at the men. "You're from the Anne," he said, addressing Matthew. "Doubtless it will be quite lonely and quiet where you're headed. Would you like some lessons?"

Matthew shook his head, smiling. "Thank you, no. I am without hope when it comes to things such as music."

"It would be wise, sir, to accept the offer." Peartree smirked to himself. "No father will want his daughter to be courted by someone tainted by the stink of debtor's prison. A man such as you should take any opportunity to better himself with gladness."

With a fascinating economy of movement, Matthew got past four men to wrap his fingers around Peartree's throat. "Your concern is much appreciated, brother. Though I do have in my possession some skills."

"Matthew Viccars," Giles warned. Despite the quickening of his pulse and the reminder that his last decent scrap had been an unacceptable six months ago (Simon had grown insufferably "mature" since their father's death had turned him into the patriarch, above things like the occasional wrestling match behind the barn.), he knew this could not be allowed to continue. Through his actions here, Matthew could cause a hairline rift between the groups which would help no one. Also someone could get hurt, or he could spend the night in jail.

Matthew continued as if Giles weren't there. "The governor had us all trained in the interest of forming a militia," he said, tilting his head. He looked at Peartree the same way he would a spider crushed on the bottom of his boot. "Took to it rather well. And of course, one does not depart from prison without the awareness of how to cause harm." Then he exposed his teeth, his expression something like a smile. "Twice blessed."

A tremor ran through Peartree's body.

Because he was trying to stop a fight and not exacerbate one, Giles leaned in very close and spoke into Matthew's ear. "Feel pity for this man. During worship, his own wife spends three quarters of an hour with her nose in the Bible and her eyes on Byron Vandy."

Matthew let out a quick, surprised bark of a laugh, and slowly he gave Peartree his throat back. Giles released a breath. His only concern now was the reaction of the other men. But he soon found that he needn’t have worried. No one said a word as the two men walked away. Perhaps because they were frightened of the results, assuming that Matthew wouldn't be as easy to talk down a second time.

Back at his uncle's house, his guardians having long since gone to sleep, Giles stoked the fire and made an educated guess. "You did have a wife."

"Aye," Matthew said, rising from his seat, suddenly restless. "Three years Joan waited whilst I rotted in that place. She did not have to. We- We were not yet married at the time I was taken." His frown deepened. "I had nothing to offer her. And yet, she waited." He sighed. "This was to be our paradise. Our Eden. She had earned it, in the coin of suffering." He lowered his voice, thoughtful. "One might say we both had."

"When did she die?"

"On the Anne." Matthew nodded his head in the direction of the water. "Distemper took her within a fortnight, England practically still in sight off the starboard bow. She could not eat, you see. The rocking of the ship, it never gave her peace. Nearly two months now."

"There are women here," Giles offered.

"No." His smile was sad. "I am not meant for that sort of life, I think. If Joan had survived, then, yes. I did love her. But not without her. The Divine Creator has other plans for Matthew Solomon Viccars."

Giles picked at a loose thread in the button-hole of his shirt. "I am Giles Solomon Holloway."

Matthew's gaze made Giles feel pinned. Not uncomfortable or intimidated. Just unable to move. He started to think that perhaps the talk of fate applied not only to Matthew. Maybe the contraption atop his shoulders refused to give him rest because he was meant for something else, something other than the life led by his father. It was an idea that he'd always considered, but he didn't _believe_ it until now.

The fire crackled loudly, and Giles tore his eyes away. "So what is it you wish for?" he asked finally.

"Land, for myself. With a lake."

"A lake?"

Matthew nodded, looking wistful. "A piece of sea for me to conquer. Hold dominion over."

As he went on, listing cows, pigs, a goat or two, a big horse with a black mane and a chestnut-colored coat, Giles thought it would have to be unbearably lonely without someone else there. But for some reason, he didn't say anything to that effect. He likewise didn’t mention how he’d come to wish that Matthew weren’t leaving tomorrow.

~

" _Giles Holloway, you wake up this instant._ "

Giles came back to himself with a start. His right arm, grown scrawny and useless since an unfortunate break six years before, protested at the ill use. Margaret glared holes in his skin out of view of Mr. and Mrs. Johnston, who thankfully appeared too gracious to comment on his departure from the conversation. Forcefully he shook off the disorientation to remember that he was negotiating the release of his only son in marriage.

"We have land, also, in Georgia," Isaiah Johnston, the girl's father was saying. "That is where they shall live. You will find it a suitable place, even quite pretty. There's a large lake on the grounds."

 _A piece of sea,_ Giles thought, as he nodded. The unbidden words puzzled him, nearly as much as the odd melancholy that came over him in a wave.

Nearly a day passed before he remembered.

***************************************************************************

Rocking back in his chair, Eames rubs his eyes and makes a frustrated noise.

"Now, Arthur. I _know_ you can recall the name of that lighting store the mark's brother ducked into this morning. I know you can. One of us has to."

Arthur blinks at him. He would take a moment to be amused at how stupid and overworked and punch-drunk this job has made them both, but he doesn't have the time to spare. "R-receipt," he blurts out, relieved.

"I'm sorry?"

"I bought something there. Let me just..." He uses his fingers to dig into his front pocket, then feels something slip out and click on the linoleum floor.

Skating away several feet, the die lands a few inches from Eames's foot.

" _Don't_ ," Arthur warns, the edges of his voice sharp.

Eames chews on his bottom lip as he looks down. "Ah, so that's your, uh. Huh." He glances at the poker chip wedged between the spaces of his fingers. "Funny."

"Yeah. Funny."

Eames opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur's attention is stolen by his ringing phone. "Fucking Nash," he mutters as he sees the caller ID.

Eames goes back to his pictures of the mark's family and friends. He's been trying to figure out who to forge for the last two days. "Don't let me keep you," he says, making a dismissive, waving motion with his hand. "Go put out whatever fire the neophyte has set this time. You are the best at it."

***************************************************************************

 _Impact in T-10 minutes. Ship at alert level 1._

Nathan presses his right thumb against the scanner, and the door to the Captain's quarters slides open with a metallic scraping sound. In the corridor a man is fiddling with an electric console trying to shut off the emergency siren, and a woman in a medical uniform hurries by with a large container of sleeping pills.

The door swishes behind Nathan as he steps into the cabin. The silence assaults him like a thick cloth covering his nose and mouth. Here there are no sirens. Here there is no emergency.

"Captain," he says, body forming itself into a lazy salute as he addresses the man sitting rigidly on the foldout cot.

His commanding officer raises his head from the cradle of his open palms. Nathan's breath catches at the look on his face, complete and utter resignation.

"Sir," he says, and then he decides that, whatever, they're about to die so he adds on a heavy, "Brendan?"

"Shouldn't you be at your post?" Brendan asks, and it stings a bit because the words are so familiar, only now there's no playful bite to them.

"I'd hate to deprive you of the chance to court martial me," Nathan replies, taking measured, cautious steps forward, "But there's this nasty rumor going around that we're about to collide with some asteroid or other, so I think I'll take my chances."

He accompanies this declaration with a dry snort of laughter, and he immediately knows it's a mistake. Brendan's face darkens and his eyebrows furrow into a knotted line.

"I'm glad you can joke about this, private," he snaps.

Nathan at least has the decency to look sheepish.

"We all have to laugh at ourselves from time to time, sir. This is as good a time as any."

He's close enough now to where Brendan has to crane his neck back to glare at him. Close enough to count the lines at the corner of Brendan's mouth. Close enough to smooth out a wrinkle along his shoulder, but the warmth radiating through the thin material of his shirt feels good against Nathan's hand, so he leaves it there. Brendan's face relaxes as the anger bleeds into fear.

"So you," Brendan starts and then wets his lips nervously, "You're okay with this?"

Nathan shrugs, "It's not my number one way of dying, but it'll do I guess."

Brendan jerks his head in a way that might be a nod or an agitated shake. Then he turns and presses a kiss, soft and hot, against Nathan's wrist. They stay frozen like that for what feels like hours. Only it can't be because they don't have hours.

 _Impact in T-5 minutes._

With an exaggerated groan, Nathan drops down to sit next to Brendan on the coarse, military-issue sheets. They're pressed together from shoulder to ankle, and Nathan can't remember the last time they were this close without being naked.

"It's been good, though, yeah?" he says, more to break the silence than anything else, "Damn good five years, if you ask me. It's been a pleasure serving under you."

He couples this statement with a comically lewd waggling of his eyebrows, and he sees the corner of Brendan's frown quirk upward.

"I mean, that guerrilla war on Syrillicon was something, right? And the time I rescued you from that collapsed base on Archimedes' moon."

Here Brendan rolls his eyes, just like Nathan knew he would.

"I seem to recall me dragging you out of that base unconscious and with a broken leg after your entire rescue mission went to hell."

Nathan shakes his head sadly, "Must be the nerves getting to you."

Brendan looks like he's about to laugh or maybe argue, but then he drops his head to Nathan's shoulder like it's some kind of habit. Like they spend every day like this instead of following orders and arguing for show and sneaking out at night so they don't get caught. It's new, this vulnerable intimacy. And not just new new. Old new. Bigger new, in some way that Nathan can't really explain or make sense of.

Brendan's breath puffs across the skin of Nathan's throat and he feels like his inside is so much bigger than his outside and he wonders vaguely how he can all fit.

"I don't want to die," Brendan whispers, lips tickling the hair at the nape of Nathan's neck.

"I know."

 _Impact in T-1 minute. Brace for impact._

Brendan kisses him then, hard and panicked, like it's the last thing he'll ever do, which, Nathan thinks wryly, it really is. And it's good and it's sad and he'd cry only they don't have the time.

"I'll see you again," Brendan says against the curve of Nathan's chin, "I always see you again."

"You've gone barmy," Nathan chuckles.

And they're kissing again and things are flashing in Nathan's head. Things that don't belong there. Things that do belong there. An old wooden ship and a razor. A gleaming metal suitcase and a worn down poker chip. Brendan, only it isn't, only it is. These long wanting looks. Wanting but never, never taking, because they can't.

A word forms on Nathan's lips. A name. He opens his mouth to call it, and it feels so very right as it burns up the back of his throat.

But then there's something close to an explosion and the door caves in and the emergency siren wails out a banshee's song and the hull wall crumples like tin foil and Brendan's eyes are as dark as the black space rushing in, or is it Nathan who's rushing out, and he whispers the name to the void and he knows his secret is safe.

 _Looks like I'll see you again after all._


End file.
